College Love Tragedy

College is a strange time for people. Some people are figuring out how to be adults. Most haven’t even started worrying about it. Certain kids I saw on campus looked like they were fresh out of a middle school, while others were already bald (I still think about that guy).

I’ve never seen such a mix of people in one area before and the amount of dumb shit that resulted from it is astounding. Whoever thought it was a good idea to group thousands of young adults in a small area should be forced to live with them for a year. I never knew how dumb people could be until I lived on-campus and I worked in retail. My freshman hall went through at least 3 microwaves at the expense of finding out what happens when you let metal get hit by magnets or whatever the hell makes microwaves work.

I have plenty of stories about college, but only one captured the essence of love in a single night.

For background, I lived in a hall with suites; basically a common room and bathroom with four rooms connected to them. I lived with some athletes, stoners, and a really strange kid. However, the stars of this short tale are not us, but the room across from us.

707.

Room 707 was a girls suite and housed 8 girls who all had a variation of “Taylor” for names. It was spooky. I don’t think any of them were named Taylor, rather names like Taylah and Tally. When they introduced themselves to our suite, I just assumed there had been one girl named Taylor in the room that had control over them all, but that was just a theory.

Anyways, these girls were fairly…recyclable. Not quite trashy, but from a distance its hard to tell the difference. Loud, drunk, they garnered a lot of attention from other guys. None of the trashiness mattered as long as they were willing to date/screw guys. The college that I went to had an extremely poor guy to girl ratio, so finding a group of girls was difficult enough. Just being a girl and conscious made you at least a 7 at our school.  It was rumored that we were an all-guy school with a couple of cross -dressing students. I have never seen an almost all guy yoga class before, but the disappointment combined with testosterone was palpable.

So a poor girl to guy ratio combined with a room full of recyclable girls, its like a perfect storm of drama.

Among the Taylor ranks, one rose above the rest over time. I’ll call her Taylor because I cannot remember what her real one was. Taylor was fairly cute and extremely social. She barged into my suite on the first day to talk everyone up and personally invite her whole suite to ours. At the party she was all over everyone yet had a vibe of just friendliness at the same time. I don’t think I had ever met a blackout drunk that was so accommodating and friendly. They usually just say that they’re too drunk and pass out in our trashcan.

Anyways Taylor garnered a lot of attention that night along with the rest of the Taylor squad.

Every weekend after, gentleman callers would slip into the suite at various times of the day. I’m talking like 5-8 a day. Our suite would call out which lady he was whispering poetry and propose dowries for their hands. It became a game.

“Hey jack-o-lantern head is back again for Tay-tay no doubt.”

“Nah man I heard he’s with Tyalor (sic) now”

We were in no way trying to shame them, but man was it a drama fest. I have seen more fights occurring in that hallway between 707 and our room than I’ve seen in a Pay Per View Special. A couple times the fight would spill into our room and I can assure you that restraining a 6 foot 4 football player with a blood alcohol content of 1.00 is difficult when you’re fresh out of the shower.

Taylor ruled over the rest of them though and accepted nearly every challenger.

That one Taylor was essentially the Helen of Troy to the campus. The wars with the victor stumbling into her room to receive their prize. It was a weekly event.However there was one night that was different.

One of my roommates was on lookout, ready to call if any drama was about to unfold, and suddenly noticed an unfamiliar face.

He called from the door, “How often does a ginger kid with an under-bite come by?”

My mind instantly raced with a sea of faces, but none quite matched. He didn’t seem like someone who frequented the 707 girls.

“Oh God he brought flowers what the hell.”

Everyone within earshot in our suite rushed to the door, peaking through any crevice we could see through. Our giggling was only stifled by our curiosity.

When I managed to sneak a peek at him, I recognized him and horror began to fill my chest. I knew him. He was a kid in my Actuarial Math class. I’ll just say that kids in those classes were not exactly studs, myself included. He was so out of his league he was in a different sport. He was so out of place he was in orbit. He was so not supposed to be there that he shouldn’t have been there.

I later learned that he had been in a group project with her and her constant flirting was taken the wrong way. No one knows how he found out where she lived. He was pacing back and forth, doing some last second integrals to check his chances.

To everyone’s horror/humor, a basketball player shoved him aside and went into 707’s suite. The contrast between athlete and actuary was staggering. These were two people who did not even acknowledge each other’s existence in college.

We could see him rethinking his plans, fighting with his doubts. I could gauge what he was thinking pretty well.

“That guy was going to see a different girl in the suite. Taylor is different. She likes me.”

That poor man.

After about five minutes, he did it.

Without so much as a knock, he went in. I could not see what was happening, but I could hear yelling and screaming almost immediately. The guy had barged in on her and the basketball player practicing the pelvic heimlich maneuver.

He dropped the flower and bolted out. Taylor ran to the door to scream at him and the basketball player chased after him. I have no clue what the two did, but neither came back that night.

Taylor was still butt naked and every one of my roommates could not keep quiet witnessing nature in all its beauty. Her gaze shifted to our door and we bolted to our on rooms within the suite.

We all waited a bit before we heard her door close and I slowly came back out to check if anything else would happen. I was surprised to see that the basketball player never returned, but a new challenger, a lacrosse player came in nearly 20 minutes later to, I can only extrapolate here, finish what the basketball player had started.

I don’t know what lesson I should have learned from this situation. College love does not exist. Yet at the same time, the confidence and determination of the Math Man were commendable. In the end, it was the man who waited who got the prize, not the romantic or the first-comer (ha).

College is weird.

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Everyone Hates Dentists

dental

One of the most relatable childhood problems was a dislike for the dentist. There was a weird smelling waiting room with other people who did not want to be there. Sitting there was never laughing or playing, just a somber silence with the occasional sound of drilling or metal scraping teeth.The smell has a faint doctor’s office feel, yet there is something more pungent with all the spit and open mouths that makes it worse. Cartoons tend to exaggerate every aspect of one’s childhood, but even as a young adult the dislike is still there.

No fully functioning adult goes to the dentist voluntarily. “I’d love to go to the movies this weekend, but I got this sweet dental appointment that day”. If you’re healthy, there should not be a force on this earth to prevent you from not going. Except one’s mother of course.

Maybe its the pain associated with it. Having hooks scrape your teeth and gums for what seems like hours is not good for one psyche. Having to remain motionless as a complete stranger goes to town on your mouth, the only stimulation being some weird motivational poster with zebras on it on the ceiling. I have been going to the same dentist for 15 years and I still have not deciphered its meaning. Perhaps its a message from past patients who could not bear the process and bled to death from their gums.

The atmosphere sucks. The process itself hurts and sucks. But NOTHING compares to immediate feeling after the cleaning is done.

Whenever I go to the dentist I try to stay positive with the dentist. I talk about what has been happening in college, ask them about their kids, just trying to make the situation as bearable as possible. In a few minutes that person is going to be knuckles deep in your mouth with metal objects, it’s wise to keep them on your side.

I’ve always been the kinda guy who tries to keep as healthy as possible, teeth included. I floss everyday, I brush twice a day, and I brush for the full two minutes with an electric toothbrush. I only forget to brush like once a week. I’m the ideal dental patient. Dental colleges (are those a thing) should be paying me to be a model or something. Every time I go into the dentist chair I’m confident that this will be the time that they find no real problems with my mouth. I’ve finally overcame that hump. I’m no longer a disgusting heathen, brushing his teeth with sugar and Sprite.

But even if the appointment is quick, the dentist’s composure hides the truth. Before it begins, they’re talkative with me, smiling and asking questions. We’re best friends. Then they have work on my mouth. It changes them. The dentist won’t even look me in the eyes. They lost a little bit of their humanity by working on my mouth. I’m pretty sure they schedule my appointments so the dentist who works on me can go home, take a cold shower, and smoke a couple cigarettes. I change dentists or something. This horrible environment is nothing compared to the monster I am in their eyes.

I swear I do everything they tell me to, but I’ll always have a disgusting mouth. Whatever. I hate dentists. I just won’t tell that to their faces.

The Big Little League (part 1)

In my town there was nothing to do. That sentiment was not only from rebellious teenagers. Even the kids and adults felt that way about our town. The community heads tried their best. They sponsored new events that always ended with rain and the same people showing up. We as a collective town had nothing. The only slight joy the town provided was the park in the middle of town,and in the middle of the park, the baseball fields.
For whatever reason, the fields were nicer than the middle and high school fields. The town’s little league program was nowhere near the best in the state let alone the country, but man did everyone care about it. Adults coming home from work would sometimes swing by to say hi to their friends and cheer on a bunch of middle school children play baseball. To make it in my town’s league made you a pseudo-celebrity for a year or two. Kids younger than you would look up to you like a hero and adults that did not even have a kid in the league would pick up a team to support. Friday was a day to come together as a town and enjoy baseball on a fundamental level.
Everyone knew about it. Watching “the game” wasn’t our high school football team, but the little league ones. Teenagers and parents would come to watch their little kids play. Other adults would come to socialize, eat some under-cooked hot dogs, and drink enough to still be able to drive home. Even the senior citizens could would appear; out of breath from their mid-afternoon strolls. They’d plop in a seat to record the kids statistics and enjoy the next generation.
I never felt too attached to my town, but those years of baseball helped me appreciate the togetherness the town had when it came to the league. The crowd that gathered to cheer for their arbitrarily chosen team. The warm evening air that became a cool breeze as night approached and the lights turned on to illuminate players and mosquitoes alike.
Baseball was king in my town. Every boy dreamt of playing in the Major League. Not the MLB no. The oldest group the league had to offer was made up of sixth and seventh graders (though I can’t remember every detail). I just remember it was in middle school.). Even in kindergarten, the boys would be fantasizing over becoming the best the league had seen and get the celebrity status that came with it. If you were one of the pillar players for a team, you were immediately popular. Older kids would high-five you. Adults would compliment you in the streets. Homeless people would give you change. Being among the elite came with its own prestige and risks as well. You were expected to be the best in every aspect.
There was a mystique among the pillars. They were the players that had superpowers when they stepped onto the field. Coaches would have to prepare strategies around countering them. Every team had at least one and in rare instances more. If asked any player who the pillars were for that year, they’d rattle off every single one along with what made them a pillar.
It was a privilege to be in the league. It was an honor to be a pillar.
See not everyone made it into the league. The popularity of it in the town had made it so almost every sixth and seventh grader wanted to play. There were set tryouts, something unheard of at that level. On a cold early spring morning, sixth graders and the occasional seventh grader would spend a grueling 6 hours being test and analyzed. There was more running in that one day than the rest of the season combined. Fielding,batting,pitching,base-running. They were all drilled, then a small break followed by going through it again. At the end of the day, the coaches would draft their teams in private. The release of the team rosters would be out by the end of week, stapled to the side of the snack shack in the center of all three of the baseball fields. Over the course of the weekend, adults would take their children down to the fields. They would get tosee either their dreams come to fruition or get stomped down by a single piece of paper.
There were always plenty of tears.
When my class became sixth graders, the first day of school was not filled with talks about teachers, or summer activities. Who gave a crap about some old farts, the real magic was the Majors tryouts. They were in the Spring, but even in the Fall, everyone was trying to figure out who was going to be on what team. The only other time I had ever witness so many kids in my class talking about a singular topic was when a kid poured some hand sanitizer in a teacher’s coffee.
I was not one of those people.
I played baseball since the earliest possible age, but I was one of the worst players in the league. I knew it, the other kids knew it, my Dad knew it. Baseball was the first thing I’d talk about with people I met. I loved the stats, the lore, the culture, but when it came to using the bat to hit the ball, I failed each and every time. The tee-ball stand almost threw a no-hitter against me. Whatever team I was on was a stinker, blowing game after game. I don’t think any of them even made it to .500.
I was moping about what I would do with all of my free time this Spring. There was no way I made a team, unless the coaches were blind, deaf, and did not know the rules of baseball. In that scenario my chances were still not the best.
In the lower leagues, I’d always beg my Dad to stay to watch “the Majors” games. I fantasized over leading my team to a championship and being a pillar. Pillars were popular, confident, and had superpowers when they stepped onto the field. The pillar I that I idolized the most was nicknamed “Sky”. Every single ball he hit arced high and always managed to drop out of outfielders’ reach. Anytime the Reds played, I went down to the park to see him in action.

Some kids looked up to Superman, but I looked up to a kid that would go on to work at a local gas station…

While going over my plans of becoming a gas station attendant, someone grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. It was Matt, one of my oldest friends.

“You pumped for the Majors?”, Matt said grinning from ear to ear. He was always way too positive off the field, but once he got on the field he was more business than a Japanese CEO.

“It’ll be weird watchin’ from the sidelines”, I replied without looking up.

“Oh come-on, tryouts haven’t even started and you think you’re already cut.”

I looked up from my desk, “It’s a little bit different for kids who aren’t locked for a spot.”

Matt was the son of one of the coaches, the Tigers. The sons of coaches automatically made the league and almost all of them were pillars the year they got in. He was one of the fastest pitchers in our class and hitting was already second-nature to him.

Everything was coming up Matt and his Majors career hadn’t even begun.

Matt looked hurt. He sat down next to me with a large sigh, saying, ” I can think of at least 5 kids worse than you no doubt.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.”

Matt shrugged,” Who knows maybe my dad picks you so we can witness your destruction of the league”.

At that moment, my mind raced to being one of the pillars with my first friend and dominating the league. Looking back now, that was a load of cow manure for plenty of reasons. Matt was not only destined to be a pillar from the start, but he was put on one of the top teams too. Though the turnover of coaches was biennial by nature, cultures of teams were carried down as a form of adding more variety and tradition. The annual contenders were the Tigers, Athletics, and Rockies. Those three of the eight were always the best, placing victory above all else in their cultures with slight variations. All teams wanted to win, but only those three were successful. They attracted the most competitive coaches, who in turn drafted the best kids, and continued the dominance. When you fantasized about being in the league, it was wearing one of those colors.

I was still in my daze of glory when class began, and my off season preparations began.

 

 

Exceptionalism

Exceptionalism is something everyone tries to attain. What this exceptional attribute is may differ from person to person,but that desire for mastery and becoming the top in one’s field is across the board. No child wants to be a bench warmer in the pros. No writer wants to simply publish one book and be done with it.

It is a predisposition  to want to be the very best. Our hopes and dreams place us on the top tier of humanity, being adored for the rest of our lives and being etched into humanity’s records for all future generations to revere you. There is a desire to be something far larger than one is.

For almost 100% of the population that is simply not possible to attain. If everyone was exceptional then no one would be. For there to be Bill Gates, there were thousands of people who invested in coding,but could never get it right or just could not quite figure it out before him.

For every Tom Brady, Wayne Gretzky, Michael Jordan, Babe Ruth there were countless athletes who spent the majority of their lives practicing and training to not even be drafted. Hours devoted to a goal never achieved.

You can probably point out the people from your high school class who everyone knew was going to be exceptional at what they did. They were exceptional among their peers at your school, but once you all were released to the general public how well did they fare? Almost every time the question arises, no one wants to know how far they fell short.

Now the obvious counterpoint is that there are more levels to anything than professional and failure. That is completely true. There are plenty of positions between never being an elected official and president. However, if one is not the groundbreaking leader in their field, they are often left to follow the cream of the crop that is, which leads to two questions.

First, was it set in stone from the very beginning? Was a combination of genetics, environment, and luck provide the only means of becoming exceptional? Are all star athletes and A-list actors born to be like that from the very beginning? Were all of the most exceptional people in the world God-given a trait that pushes and drives them upward? That would both be a relief and a curse to find out. There would be no pressure if you knew you weren’t going to be the one in a billion person to save the world. That’s crushing to have live up to unreal expectations.

The second would be for those who did not become the top in their fields, what are their purposes in the grander scheme? Every leader had their followers. Every celebrity had their fans. Without the less exceptional people, the exceptional people would have a lot less power in what they did. They would still be exceptional, but without constituents they would still be just one person. Would they not be able to have done what they did without the others to push them forward? How do you separate the person from the people? Surely us common folk are more than just building blocks to build up a leader.

Exceptionalism falls into that nature versus nurture question and the answer likely lies somewhere in the middle. Knowing that exact scale may not yield the results we want in the slightest.

You spend your childhood being told how smart you are, how fast, how talented, how handsome. Then as the world starts opening up to you, the occasional person smarter than you appears. Soon you’re not the straight A student, but B+ and a B student. Then you go to college or move to another town and you really start to see how average you really are. You’re not even top 10% in your class by this point, but you still consider yourself one of the smartest people you know. The farther out your scope pulls, the more you fade into the background. You once could coast with what you had, until you reached the point where those behind you worked their way past you.

Its a shock, but its a necessary one.

Even with those variations from birth, after a certain point you can’t just coast and attain the 1% status you want. Sure some roads are bumpier than others. It would not hurt if I had good eyesight, soft hair, and was at least 6′ 2″, but it would only get me so far with how atrocious my diet is.

Exceptionalism is not born, but perfected. Sure some people have the inside track, but to truly become what one aspires to be, they have to put as much time and effort as possible without wavering. If exceptionalism was easy to attain, everyone would be exceptional. Then nobody would be exceptional and a new cycle would start. By seeing how average we are, you can appreciate that at some level everyone is coming from the same beginnings. As a child, your world view is pretty much just you and a handful of people. You were maybe the funniest one or the fastest one, maybe even the cool one. Everyone was there at some point. It humanizes others.

Maybe people like us are just pawns to the handful of kings. Maybe we are just disposable to the larger picture. All we can really do is accomplish as much as we can and be content with what we did.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Exceptionalism

Exceptionalism is something everyone tries to attain. What this exceptional attribute may differ from person to person,but that desire for mastery and becoming the top in one’s field is across the board. No child wants to be a bench warmer in the pros. No writer wants to just write in a blog once in a while.

It is a predisposition for us to want to be the very best. Our hopes and dreams put us on the top of humanity, being adored for the rest of your life and being etched into humanity’s records for all future generations to revere you. There is a desire to be something far larger than one is.

For almost 100% of the population that is simply not possible for them to attain. If everyone was exceptional then no one would be. For there to be Bill Gates, there were thousands of people who invested in coding,but could never get it right or simply were not lucky to be exposed with their findings.

For every Tom Brady, Wayne Gretzky, Michael Jordan, Babe Ruth had countless failures, but only some people persisted. Is it blind optimism? Possibly.

Am I talking out my ass? Certainly, but hey I like writing about whatever.

We want all the benefits of benefits from being the best, but man the process sucks. Its almost impossible to find cases of people succeeding at the first chance they get. Sure some are more predisposed to excelling at certain things. If I ever become a seven foot tall behemoth you’ll definitely see me on the court some day. I have a friend who is 6 foot four and he is bombarded with questions about trying to go pro. Too bad he’s the most uncoordinated person the world has ever decided to spawn. Even with these advantages there’s still no guarantee of success. Yet even then there are still other people fighting with you to get to that same goal. Fighting to be a famous writer is a bloodbath while being the number one chainsaw juggler is a bit less broad in scope (not to say it isn’t impressive).

How much of this are we in control of? People love the underdog story and of the self-made man (or woman), but how attainable is it? It happens for sure, but how much is circumstance and genetics and what is the hard work portion. If you’ve seen any of those gym site its always showing these fit models sweating their asses off. They’re not showing the scrawny version that they were for the majority of the time. The gym is more packed in January than Time Square is during New Year’s Eve, ” This is the year I lose the baby fat and pick up that chick on the treadmill with the firmest ass I’ve ever stared at for too long”. The difference is that that girl has been going for 4 years and has been ogled her entire gym career. She’s been running on that same damn treadmill everyday at the same time after eating the same meals for before you knew what leg day was.

I always felt I was one who would strive for goodness, but not greatness. I was an A- student. I went to the gym fairly regularly and ate healthy 4 outta the 7 days of the week. Motivation was a fleeting concept with the occasional appearance in my life. There was a general feeling to be decent at everything I did. That was it though. I never felt like I had to be number one in anything growing up. The top was good, but the very top was too much work.

Was I born to be meh or was it a lifestyle choice? I hold the (rather optimistic) belief that enough effort can alter your life. There is a level though that can’t be attained without some help.

You see the type of person I’m talking about everywhere. They give all they got in everything they do and it shows. Did the effort cause the exceptionalism or did the exceptionalism spawn even more effort to be called upon?

I’m not sure anymore man, my head hurts from thinking about this too much. My fault for trying.

Chew With Your Mouth Shut

One of the most annoying sounds I often hear is people eating food loudly. I’m not talking about the clinking of silverware or the slight simmering of the food fresh out of the bowl. No I have no problem with that. Its the person chewing the food. Their open-mouthed chomping mixed with their struggled breath in between mouthfuls of food.

The food can not help it. It was made to be consumed. All it did was sit in a grocery store aisle, looking slightly appealing. I’m sure if food could talk it would apologize for its transgression. The fact that it dared to interrupt my peace of mind. Disgraceful. If it weren’t for foods need to be consumed, my realm of almost complete silence would be intact.

How dare the person put that food in this horrible scenario.  If they just shut their mouths all of this could be avoided. The need for them to keep opening their face holes and never quite closing them seems like too much to ask. Their stupid faces being stuffed just because they never want to stop their attack on their plate.

Why should I be troubled with telling them how to behave? I’m sitting with another adult that has not the slightest idea that they’re irritating me. Wheeze. Pick up bite of food. Wheeze. Shove food down mouth. Wheeze. Close mouth enough to make food mushy,but not enough to actually close mouth. What an abhorrent cycle.

It is a tragedy that I must bare this burden in silence. Could you imagine the fallout of telling someone to shut their annoying faces for a single second. Is the slight discomfort of telling someone to close their mouths greater than the annoyance that it causes? This is the type of question that Greek scholars would ponder while watching their emperor stuff their mouth. Is execution worse than loud chewing? I’m starting to think not.

So instead of enjoying my meal with a friend I must keep my mouth closed while they keep their’s wide open.

Woe is me.

Monster(2004): Why You Should Watch It

monster1

No spoilers, this is a recommendation.

You should watch Monster because of its exploration of dark themes, great animation and art direction, great characters and story-line, and if you can handle dull portions of the story. Perfect for those who love crime dramas and a good intro to more mature anime.

When people hear the word anime they think of ridiculous hairstyles, cat-eared girls, and over the top expressions. Don’t get me wrong, there  are some pretty good reasons for those stereotypes. However anime like Monster fit none of these stereotypes. Its considered one of the best crime dramas in anime and holds up incredibly well with the other anime. Despite finishing over a decade ago as of writing this, its still ranked at #41 on myanimelist and has an 8.7 on IMDB.

If anime is not really your thing,  this show is a great place to start. For some people “anime” is something you do not particularly favor “real shows”. I’m right there with you, I almost never watch anime, but there are some real gems that should not be avoided just because of the medium its in. Fans of story-writing should not skip out on this show. Themes are heavy and deal with uncomfortable topics; abusive parents,prostitutes, murder(obviously) to name a few. The realism of the show makes it almost seem like the show truly occurred and there are only a handful of times where its grounded nature was remotely in question.

The show is a crime drama about a prodigy doctor,Doctor Tenma, who saved the life of a boy who later becomes a serial killer. The main theme deals with the value of human life and the value of saving one over another. This is not about a bunch of adults playing a children’s card game to determine the fate of the world. The art is pleasant and especially good when showing the countryside of rural Germany. However, some of the character designs seem too similar, particularly the plethora of one-off characters.

Monster is one of those slow-burning shows. It starts slows, goes crazy for a bit, settles down for a bit, and then insanity takes control again. Viewers who do not want to pay too much attention to plot and the dialogue of the characters will be rather disappointed in the series. Character development can be rather dull at times, but the show really emphasizes the various main characters and how their world views conflict with one another. You have a doctor on the run, a young serial killer, the serial killer’s twin sister who is just as capable as him (in a good way), a dark and imposing inspector devoid of emotion, and an emotionally unstable ex-fiancee.

Even the portrayal of the show adds to the rather unnerving atmosphere. The ominous opening and closing scenes are dark with flashes of blood and guns. Monster is just as good portraying murder scenes as beautiful views of nature. After the first dozen episodes or so, viewers will never be sure how long the happiness presented will last and if the buildup in a rather tense sad will end with everyone surviving. Your emotions will be toyed with throughout the series, be warned. Boredom will also be an emotion felt, as developing the characters takes time and the gradual revelations that occur later in the series are built upon. There will be dull moments, but if you can manage to power through them you will be rewarded in the plot later.

Though it is a serialized show, not all episodes are created equal. Some episodes add little to nothing in terms of moving the plot forward, but help establishes the main character compassion or the killer’s all-around cunning. You’re slowly piecing together what each character’s motives and beliefs are, leading to some horrifying realizations. Certain episodes have their main focal points vary to include side characters  as well. The amount of characters introduced and followed outnumber the main cast by a fair amount, but they all eventually come back to them. I found myself barely paying attention to certain episodes as it seemed like nothing was happening and there are several instances where I was right to do so.

All-around this show is solid and if slow-pacing isn’t a downside for you then the show is perfect. Fans of crime dramas will feel right at home watching this. Its mature,but not over the top nature makes it a perfect example of a realistic anime that is perfect for those who are not too fond of the more exaggerated versions in the genre.

Obviously this is coming from someone who is as mainstream as mainstream gets when it comes to anime; DBZ, Naruto, Death Note, Fullmetal,  Kuroko no Basuke. Those already well-versed with anime are almost certainly going to mention Monster to those who are new to anime or not too fond of the anime genre. It is one of the most well-received series by anime fans and it offers plenty to those who enjoy detailed plot-lines and heavy themes.

TL:DR; Monster is one of the best examples of grounded anime. The show is perfect for those who are not as fond of the intense screaming, big-boobed,crazy-haired anime that is stereo-typically thought of. Its dark themes and plot-lines ask questions that many people do not want the answer to. The only major knock to it is its length and slow build-up, but the overall plot is well worth it.